


Marriage

by karcathy



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Arranged Marriage, M/M, wow this is way longer than i meant it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:59:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karcathy/pseuds/karcathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets married to a guy he's never met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marriage

**Author's Note:**

> Okay well this was written as a request for fanficstuck and so I couldn't be bothered to think of a real reason anyone would be arranging a marriage for these guys so I just... didn't give a reason. So, really, there is no reason, but just assume Bro is to blame.

You wake up feeling vaguely nervous, although you can’t quite remember why. Sunlight is streaming onto your pillow, and you sit up, covering your barely-open eyes with one hand. Your mind is still fuzzy and you can barely string two thoughts together, but you have a vague feeling that you need to get up for some reason. Something important is happening today... But what?

 

Burying your face in your hands, you screw your eyes up tight and try to think. It’s just there, on the edge of your mind, but you can’t quite reach it. You keep trying, for just another moment, and then give up, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. You suppose that whatever it was, it can’t have been that important.

 

Sighing, you swing your legs out of bed and glance over at the clock. It’s half seven, and you wonder whether you shouldn’t just go back to bed. You hesitate, then stand up, thinking you might as well get up now you’re awake. You stand still for a moment, wondering whether your dad will be up, then sit down again as you hear a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

It’s your dad, with a tray of breakfast. Is it a special occasion? You don’t think it’s your birthday... or Christmas... Maybe he’s just being nice?

“Eat up,” he says, putting it down on your bed, “It’s a big day today.”

He leaves before you can ask what’s happening, although you think that’s probably for the best.

 

There’s a lot of food on the tray, but you can only manage half a slice of toast and some orange juice. You’re still feeling nervous, although no closer to remembering why, and the toast tastes like cardboard in your dry mouth. Standing up, you drop the toast back onto the tray and walk over to your closet, thinking you might as well get dressed. Whatever is happening today, you think you’d rather not do it in your pajamas. You notice that there’s a suit hanging on the closet door, and you frown. Why is that there? You freeze, trying desperately to remember, and then it hits you. You’re getting married today. How did you manage to forget _that_?

 

Maybe you’d blocked it from your memory. After all, you hadn’t chosen to get married, and you’d never even met the person you were marrying. All you had was a name, and a slight urge to vomit. It takes you another moment to remember the name – Dave Strider. As you pull on the suit, you try to imagine what sort of person Dave might be. You don’t have much to go on, but you think he sounds kind of like a douchebag. Strider, you think, is definitely a douchey surname.

 

You finish getting dressed and brush your teeth in a slight daze, then sit on your bed wondering whether this is really happening. How did you end up here, about to marry someone you’ve never so much as seen a picture of? Are you going to have to take his douchey surname? You think about being called John Strider, and laugh despite yourself. Then again, Dave Egbert isn’t much better.

 

It doesn’t seem long before your dad comes up to get you, and leads you down to the car, saying things you don’t quite catch. You’re lost in your thoughts, and it feels like your whole head has been wrapped in cotton wool. The world seems distant and remote, and you can almost pretend you aren’t about to get married to a guy you’ve never met.

 

The church is small and scruffy, and you notice the paint is peeling. You feel like you’re sleepwalking throughout the whole ceremony, and you barely manage to notice that Dave is blond, and taller than you, and wears douchey sunglasses the entire time. The sunglasses kind of annoy you (who wears sunglasses in church?) and you think you were right about his surname. You wonder whether he’s as nervous as you are, and think he’s probably far too cool to be nervous. Look at those sunglasses. God, what a douche.

 

You still aren’t entirely sure this is really happening as you drive to the reception, which is being held in a seedy bar and was organised by Dave’s brother, who looks vaguely intimidating and keeps cracking bawdy jokes. You stand in the corner, nursing a beer, and part of you hopes this was all a dream. You can’t see Dave, and you wonder whether there’s going to be a honeymoon. You hope there isn’t going to be a honeymoon. You feel like throwing up.

 

You let your dad lead you away from the bar and put you into a taxi, your head still fuzzy, although now you think it’s the alcohol. Eyes closed, you lean your head against the cold window and try to pretend that you’re somewhere else. You hear someone climb in next to you, but don’t bother to check who. It’s probably your dad, you think. You must be going home, where you can sleep and forget this ever happened.

“Hey,” says an unfamiliar voice with a faint Texan accent, “You asleep?”

You nod, opening your eyes a crack and then closing them again when you catch a glimpse of some douchey sunglasses and a flash of blond hair.

“You okay?” he asks, as you feel the taxi pulling away from the curb and setting off.

You nod again, your cheek sticking to the glass. He falls silent, and you fall into a half-sleeping daze, your mind blissfully blank, until you feel the taxi slide to a halt.

“Hey, come on,” Dave says, shaking your shoulder.

You don’t respond. Maybe he’ll leave you here.

“All right, fine,” he says, and you hear his door slam.

Your hopes are crushed a moment later as your door swings open and you nearly fall out, only to have him catch you. He sweeps you up, bridal-style, and you really, really hope you aren’t blushing. It’s too late to back out now, so you continue to pretend you’re asleep as he carries you inside, stands still and talks for a bit, and then carries you up some stairs. You crack your eyes open as he dumps you on a bed, then decide to make the best of it and stretch sleepily.

“Hmm? Where are we?” you ask, in your best befuddled voice.

“Hotel,” Dave replies, unzipping a suitcase.

“Hotel where?”

“Canada.”

“What? Why?” you ask, sitting up and suddenly feeling a lot less sleepy.

“Honeymoon.”

“Who honeymoons in Canada?” you ask, pulling a face.

Dave doesn’t reply, and you sigh.

“Well, why honeymoon?” you ask, feeling a little like you want to cry, “I haven’t even packed.”

“Your dad packed for you,” he replies, pointing at a second suitcase.

“I don’t want to go to Canada,” you say, angrily wiping away the tears that are starting to well up.

Dave doesn’t reply, searching through his suitcase. You open your mouth to say something else, but close it again, tears running down your cheeks. If this is a dream, you’d like to wake up now.

“Whoa, hey, whoa,” Dave says, standing up and awkwardly patting your shoulder, “Hey, man, don’t cry.”

“I- I- I-” you manage, before burying your face in your hands and starting to sob.

You feel an arm around your shoulder, and Dave pulls you into a hug, your face against his chest and your tears and snot leaving a messy damp patch on his shirt.

 

It’s a while before you stop crying.

“I’m sorry,” you say, wiping your eyes, as you pull out of the hug.

“It’s okay,” he says, shrugging.

You give him a small smile, and, after a moment, he smiles back at you. You sit in silence for a moment, wondering what to say next.

“Why do you wear those sunglasses?” you ask, frowning.

“Huh?”

“These,” you say, tapping the lens, “You haven’t taken them off all day.”

“Oh, right,” he says, fiddling with the frame, “Yeah.”

“So why do you wear them? Have you got funny eyes?” you ask, your own eyes wide and curious.

“Uh. Kind of, I guess,” he says, half-smiling, “You wanna see?”

Silently, you nod, and he slowly takes off the sunglasses.

“You sure?” he asks, his eyes shut tight.

You nod again, then realise he can’t see you, and say “Yes”, your voice soft.

“Okay, then,” he says, opening his eyes, and you gasp.

“They’re red!” you say, stating the obvious, “Wow!”

He gives you an apprehensive look, and you smile.

“That’s so cool!” you add, “Wow. I wish I had cool eyes.”

“Yours are prettier,” he says, shrugging, “I’ve never seen any so blue.”

You look away, your cheeks heating up, and try to think of something else to say. You can’t think of anything that isn’t excruciatingly embarrassing.

“Hey, are you blushing?” he asks, lifting your chin with one finger and forcing you to look at him.

“No,” you mutter, pulling away and turning even redder.

He laughs, and you wish the floor would swallow you up.

“Go and brush your teeth,” he says, smiling, “I’m gonna get changed.”

 

After you’ve brushed your teeth, it’s his turn, and you change into your pajamas, glad that your dad packed your favourite pair. It’s only then that you notice there’s only one bed, and your nerves come back full force. Well, sharing a bed doesn’t necessarily mean... right? But then again... Perhaps you should just sleep on the floor. You sit on the edge of the bed, thoughtfully chewing your lip, and try to decide what to do. Maybe you’re just over-thinking this.

 

You jump when the bathroom door opens, and accidentally bite your lip. Dave gives you an odd look, and you realise your lip is bleeding. The sharp, tangy taste seems more real than anything else so far today.

“You okay?” he asks, raising one eyebrow.

“Uh, yeah,” you say, nervously licking your lip, “I just bit my lip.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says, sitting down next to you, “Here, you missed a bit.”

Gently, he wipes your lower lip with his thumb.

“Oh. Thanks,” you say, feeling your face heat up.

He smiles, and you don’t know where to look. You can feel yourself getting more and more nervous, wondering what he’s going to say next.

“Well, I’m tired,” he says, stretching and yawning, “Night.”

Reaching across you to flick off the light switch, he gives you a small smile, then crawls under the covers. You hesitate before sliding in too, as far away from him as you can. You hope he doesn’t take it personally.

 

You wake up feeling warm and slightly squashed. It takes you a moment to realise that’s because Dave is half on top of you, his arm wrapped around your waist and your face pressed against the base of his neck. It’s not exactly uncomfortable, but you also can’t really breathe properly, and you kind of need to pee. You try to wriggle out, but Dave shifts in his sleep, tightening his grip and pulling you closer. He mumbles something into your hair, and shifts again, hooking his leg around yours. You think you’re now pretty thoroughly trapped, and you definitely need to pee. Maybe if you wet yourself, he’ll let go. Then again, you’re supposed to be married now. You doubt that peeing on your husband is a good idea.

 

Twisting onto your front, you try to break free, but fail again. You aren’t sure whether he’s strong or just heavy, but either way, you don’t think you’re going to be able to force your way out of here. Panting slightly, you relax back down into his arms, trying to think of another way out, preferably before your bladder bursts. You feel yourself blushing as you notice Dave has a rather pressing issue of his own – pressing against your thigh, that is. Well, that’s his problem, not yours, although maybe it’s just revenge for you considering peeing on him.

 

By this point, you think, you have two options. Either you wet yourself like a little boy, or you man up and wake Dave up. As tempting as the former is, you think the latter is better for everyone involved. Now you just have to figure out how exactly you’re going to do that. You don’t have much room to move, but you think you could probably kick him from here, and maybe head-butt his chin. Or you could just thrash around and see what happens. That seems like the quickest option, if the most erratic.

 

It takes a lot of thrashing to wake Dave up, and you’re fairly certain you bruised the top of your head on his chin, but finally his eyes flutter open and he stretches. You take the opportunity to break free and sprint to the bathroom, leaving him sleepy and confused, but at least not peed on. You’re fairly certain this is the most satisfying pee of your life.

 

Dave still looks confused, and more than half-asleep, when you return. Feeling a little resentful, you chuck a pillow at him.

“Get up,” you say, “I’m hungry.”

He mumbles something and rolls over, clearly not intending on getting up any time soon.

“Hey!”

You chuck another pillow at him. He doesn’t respond.

“I’m talking to you!”

Grabbing another pillow, you jump onto the bed and starting hitting him with it, although he’s mostly buried under the blankets.

“Get! Up! You! Lazy!” you say, punctuating each word with a blow from the pillow.

Before you can finish your insult, he leaps up, grabbing a pillow of his own, and starts fighting back with a vengeance. You quickly abandon your pillow, and start mercilessly tickling him. You’re devilishly pleased to discover that he’s extremely ticklish, and he soon collapses into a breathless heap, begging for you to stop.

“No! Ah, please!” he all but screams, his voice a whole octave higher than usual, “Stop it!”

“What’s that?” you ask, a picture of innocence, “You want me to stop?”

“Yes! Please! Stop! I’m- I’m beg- begging!”

You grin, then stop. He rolls away from you, gasping for breath.

“That... was just... cruel,” he says, shaking his head.

“Well, at least you’re up now,” you say, shrugging, “I did try asking nicely.”

“You tried asking. I’m not so sure about nicely.”

“Hey!” you say, shoving him.

“See what I mean?” he says, smirking, and you shove him again, harder.

He barely moves.

“Come on, give it a real go,” he says, still smirking.

Gritting your teeth, you throw your whole body against him, and finally succeed at knocking him over.

“That good enough for you?” you ask, grinning and pinning his hands above his head.

He laughs, and you can feel his breath, hot and damp, and you realise your lips are barely inches away from his, and your bodies are pressed close together, and this is all suddenly far too intimate for your liking. You feel a sudden urge to kiss him, and is it your imagination, or are his pupils a little more dilated, and is he breathing a little faster? You can hear your heart hammering in your ears and it seems like you’ve been frozen there for hours, poised on the edge of deciding.

 

The moment is broken as Dave moves, catching you off-guard and flipping you onto your back, so he’s poised over you and you’re now trapped beneath him. He pauses, his nose gently brushing yours, and you close your eyes, parting your lips ever so slightly. You’re almost certain he’s going to kiss you, and then he pulls away, releasing your hands, and laughs. Opening your eyes, you can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

“I win,” he says, grinning triumphantly, and you smile.

“Can we get breakfast now?” you ask, pouting.

You try to force the thought of the almost-kiss out of your mind, but you can’t quite stop thinking about it.

 

You get dressed in a hurry and eat breakfast downstairs, arriving just in time to order. You pick pancakes and hot chocolate, but Dave just has some toast and a coffee. Whilst you’re eating, you discuss your plans for the day.

“So, where exactly are we?” you ask, your mouth full, “I mean, apart from Canada. Where in Canada?”

“Vancouver,” Dave replies, flicking through a magazine which has as much text as a newspaper.

“Oh. So, what is there to do in Vancouver?”

He just shrugs, and you sigh.

“Well, um,” you say, trying to remember everything you know about Vancouver, “Are there boat trips?”

“Probably.”

“How long are we staying here, anyway? Did you plan anything? Or did you just think, hey, Vancouver, that looks like a great place to honeymoon!”

You can’t stop the sarcasm creeping into your voice, but really, he could stand to pay you a little more attention.

“I’m talking, you know,” you say, slamming your hand down on his magazine.

He finally looks up at you, his expression inscrutable behind his sunglasses.

“Don’t make a scene,” he says, coolly tugging his magazine out from under your hand.

“Well, maybe if you’d actually listen to me I wouldn’t have to,” you hiss, your voice barely above a whisper, “But, you know, excuse me for actually wanting to try to have fun here. Obviously that’s just a waste of time!”

Forcing yourself not to glance back over your shoulder, you storm off. Too angry to wait for the elevator, you march up three flights of stairs, let yourself into your room, and throw yourself onto the bed.

 

You bury your face in a pillow and try not to cry. You fail. Tears spatter the pillow and sobs wrack your body, and you’re soon crying too hard to stop. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re crying about. Maybe it’s because Dave wouldn’t listen to you, or maybe it’s because he told you not to make a scene, or maybe it’s because he didn’t kiss you, or perhaps it’s just a mixture of everything. All you know is you’re crying and you can’t stop crying and you’re going to keep crying until you run out of tears. You’re crying too loudly to hear the door opening, or the footsteps across the room, and you don’t react to the hand on your back, too absorbed in your sobbing to pay it any attention.

“Oh, man,” Dave says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... Uh...”

His hand moves in soothing circles on your back, and, despite yourself, your sobs begin to stop.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats.

You nod, sitting up, and wipe your eyes with the heel of your hand.

“It’s okay,” you say, smiling even though you still can’t quite stop crying.

“Nah, it’s not,” he says, shaking his head, and you laugh shakily.

You don’t really know what to say to that; he’s right, after all. Hesitantly, he reaches out one hand and gently wipes away your tears with his thumb, cupping your cheek in his palm. He leans in ever-so-slightly closer, and you tilt your head, half-hoping he’s going to kiss you and half-thinking you shouldn’t get your hopes up. You let your eyelids droop til your eyes are half-closed, and he shifts closer still.

“Do you mind if I-” he begins, and you nod before he can finish, leaning towards him and closing your eyes expectantly.

He laughs, but you don’t have time to get annoyed before you feel his lips brush against yours, so softly it can barely be called a kiss. It suddenly strikes you that you’ve never been kissed before, making this your first kiss. The thought is enough to make you laugh, breaking off the kiss. It’s safe to say that this is nothing like how you thought your first kiss would go.

“What?” he asks, his lips brushing against yours and his voice barely a mumble.

“It’s nothing,” you say, smiling slightly.

He pauses, then pulls away, shaking his head. You look up at him, a little apprehensively, and he smiles.

“So,” you say, rubbing your eyes, “What’re we going to do today, then?”

“I was thinking whale-watching,” he replies, running a hand through his hair.

“Wow!” you say, your eyes widening, “I’ve never seen whales before.”

“Me neither.”  
“Well, you’re from Texas, aren’t you?” you say, and he nods, “I shouldn’t think there are many whales in Texas.”

“That’s true enough,” he says, laughing, “So, what do you think? You game?”

“Yeah!”

 

You wash your face and take a couple of Tylenol before heading out. Dave already has tickets, and seems to know exactly where you’re going, so you just let him lead the way. Despite the Tylenol, you can feel a headache coming on. You guess that’s what you get for crying excessively, although to be fair, you had plenty of reason to cry. You don’t really want to think about that, though. You’d rather just watch some whales.

 

It’s a long time before you actually get onto the boat, but finally you’re off and in search of whales. You weren’t really listening, but you think you’re going to be looking for humpback whales. You don’t particularly mind what sort they are, really. Any sort of whale is bound to be exciting, right?

 

Two hours later, you’re thinking that any sort of whale would be better than the complete lack of whales so far. Or even anything that isn’t water and trees and mist, really. You’ve been leaning on the rail for so long your elbows have gone numb, and you’re starting to lose hope. Dave went inside half an hour ago, but you’re determined to wait. You know he’ll regret it when you see a whale and he doesn’t. You just hope that makes it worth it.

 

Another hour later, and you’re beginning to think it really isn’t worth it. You still haven’t seen any whales and your whole body feels numb. You think you should have probably brought a thicker jacket. You’re just thinking about giving up and going inside when you feel someone step up behind you, a hand reaching out past your shoulder and pointing into the distance.

“Look,” Dave says, and you can feel his breath on your ear, “There’s one over there.”

“Where?” you ask, a split-second before you spot it, “Oh! Wow, it’s so big!”

“It’s kind of beautiful,” he says, his hands drifting to your waist.

“Yeah, it is,” you say, nodding, “But... Well, I think it looks a bit lonely, really.”

You wait for him to reply, but he stays silent.

“You know,” you continue, shifting your weight to one foot, “It’s all alone in all that water-”

“Hey, look,” he interrupts, pointing again, “There’s another one.”

“Oh, yeah! Look, and another!”

You twist around to look up at him, grinning, and he smiles.

“Not so lonely after all, eh?” he says, and you laugh.

“I guess so.”

 

You get a little bored of watching the whales after a while, and you think your fingers might be getting frostbite, so you decide to go indoors and warm up over a coffee. Dave insists on paying, which is good because you forgot your wallet, and you pick a window seat.

“So, uh, Dave,” you say, carefully placing your coffee on the table and managing not to spill any, “I think we need to talk.”

“Yeah, cool,” he says, sitting down opposite you, “What about?”

“Well, about how we’re, you know, _married_ ,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Okay, what about it?”

He sips his coffee, and you sigh. You doubt he’s going to make this easy.

“So, we got married because-”

“Of one of my bro’s intricately stupid plans, yeah, I know,” he interrupts, and you glare at him.

“Anyway, we’re married, right?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, and you think he’s probably rolling his eyes behind his shades.

“So do we have to... you know, act married?” you ask, looking down at your coffee and hoping you aren’t blushing.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, shrugging, “I mean, we had to do this whole honeymoon thing.”  
“So, uh, how far does that, you know, go?”

“We might have to live together, I think. At least for a bit, anyway.”

You can feel your cheeks heating up, and you can’t look Dave in the eye. You don’t think you’re going to be able to say what you actually mean to.

“Oh,” says Dave, after a moment of silence, “You mean... _Oh_.”

You contemplate drowning yourself in your coffee.

“Hey, listen, you don’t have to worry about any of that, okay?” he says, sounding concerned, “I’m not gonna make you do anything.”

Well, that wasn’t _exactly_ what you were thinking, but you’re too embarrassed to correct him. You decide just to drink your coffee instead. Maybe you’ll be able to bring this up again later.

 

You get takeaway pizza for dinner and eat it in your room, watching bad TV and never quite meeting each other’s eyes. Well, that’s mostly you, really. You aren’t exactly sure how to tell him that even though you’ve only known each other for a couple of days, you think you kind of like him. This whole situation is completely fucked up, to be honest.

 

Later, you lie awake next to him, your mind too busy to even entertain the thought of sleeping.

“Hey,” you say, rolling onto your side, “You awake?”

“Yeah,” Dave says, rolling over to face you.

Your noses are almost touching, but between lack of light and lack of glasses, you can barely make out his face.

“I can’t sleep,” you say, thinking about how he’s just inches away from you right now.

“Me neither,” he says, and is it your imagination or did he just move a little closer?

A sudden spark of bravery – or is it insanity? – compels you to close the distance between you, pressing your lips against his in a chaste, dry kiss.

“S-sorry,” you stammer, pulling away, “I don’t- I didn’t- I-”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts, cupping your cheek in his hand, “Do you want to try again?”

You nod, closing you eyes, and he laughs softly before kissing you again. Your lips part automatically, and you almost pull away when his tongue touches yours, catching you by surprise. You aren’t exactly sure how this whole kissing thing is supposed to go, but Dave seems to have a pretty good idea. His lips are soft and slightly chapped, and his stubble is scratchy. You’d like to keep doing this, but your arm is starting to go numb from being crushed under your body. You suppose you might be a bit more comfortable on your back, so you roll away, pulling Dave on top of you and managing not to break the kiss. He’s heavier than you expected, but he quickly shifts his weight off of you, breaking off the kiss and then nudging your legs apart with his knees and putting his hands on either side of your head.

“Comfortable?” he asks, and you nod.

He leans down and kisses you again, and you think this angle is a lot more comfortable. Your hands drift to his waist, and then you think you might as well try to make this a little more interesting. Sliding your hands under his shirt, you push it up, running your fingers gently up his sides.

“Hey, stop it,” he says, pulling away and giggling, and you remember that he’s extremely ticklish.

“Oops, sorry,” you say, “I forgot.”

He laughs, sitting up properly and tugging off his shirt, then leans back down and starts kissing along your jaw. Careful not to tickle him again, you run your hands down his back, then slip them inside the waistband of his pants.

“Eager much?” he teases, and you’re glad it’s too dark for him to see you blushing.

“Shut up.”

He slides one hand down your stomach, then pauses just above the waistband of your pants.

“Are you sure you want to-”  
“Yes,” you interrupt, squeezing his ass.

It doesn’t quite have the desired effect, making him laugh loudly, but that doesn’t deter you. He leans down and kisses you again, running his hand down the front of your pants, and you moan, making him laugh again.

“Hey, shut up,” you mumble, pouting.

“Sorry,” he says, kissing your neck.

“Hmph.”

“Sorry,” he says again, kissing your collarbones and slowly unbuttoning your shirt.

“Hmm.”

“Sorry,” he repeats, over and over, as he kisses his way down your chest and stomach.

“A-ah,” you say, as he slides down your pants, still kissing, “What are you...?”

“Apologising,” he says, and you think he might be smirking.

“Asshole.”

“Maybe later.”

You gasp, choking on your laughter, and hit him around the head.

“Dave!”

“Yes?” he says, grinning up at you, and you sigh.

“God,” you say, as his lips return to your dick.

He doesn’t reply, of course – his mouth is a little preoccupied. He certainly seems to know what he’s doing, and, in an embarrassingly short time, it’s all over.

“Wow, uh,” you say, as he sits up, “Um. You’ve got something on your face.”

He laughs, wiping it away, and you blush.

“Well, that was. Something,” you say, fiddling with your fingers.

“Yeah, you could say that,” he says, and you laugh.

You think you could get used to this whole marriage thing.  


End file.
